The young man glanced at the letters scattered across the desk. "What do you intend to do?"
Alistair studied him carefully like a customer inspecting his products. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you are finally prepared to be useful."
The young man stiffened slightly. There it was; the familiar dissatisfaction. No matter what he accomplished, his father always seemed to regard it as insufficient.
"What would you have me do?"
Alistair leaned back. "The Andersons have two daughters," he started, watching for weakness in the young man before him.
The dark-haired man's expression remained neutral. "Francesca is the younger one."
"Yes."
Connecting the dots, "She is attracting considerable attention this Season."
"I am aware," his father replied. "And Penelope?" Alistair watched him carefully.
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking about her?"
"Because she is the one you should concern yourself with."
The young man went still.
